Ultima Ratio
by Fluorochrome
Summary: There is no instance of a nation benefiting from prolonged warfare. Set at the climax of the anime series, this AU will gradually incorporate the familiar cast. Chapter Four now uploaded!
1. A good man must die

**1. A good man must die**

The chill air over the mustering ground held an almost electric charge, a frenzied atmosphere laced with anticipation and unease. It was 4:00 AM, and over much of South City the silence was deafening. Here, though, trucks jostled into position to form ragged columns, and an entire Corps of the Southern Army prepared for war. Electric lights cast a pall over the scene, edged shadows trailing machine and man. Weapons were inspected with a care born of nervous tension, uniforms were adjusted, and heartfelt letters put to paper and sealed or destroyed in their turn. Tearful or proud parents, spouses, girlfriends and children had already been sent on their way with reassurances of an eventual return. A steady southerly breeze kept up the punishment, and night's grip looked no looser than it had five hours ago.

"Got it from 3rd Batt's S4 that we're last in the marching order. Funny how they can't seem to get the word out until after we leave the centrally-heated comfort of Southern HQ." Puppet shivered in his ochre tunic and tugged his jacket back on. Muttered conversations fogged the air around them, harsh lights overhead throwing eyes into shadow.

"Much as I appreciate you using your high-up contacts to keep us informed, Major, I'd have preferred to continue my wishful thinking." Sergeant Early rubbed a badly-timed shaving cut on his chin and grimaced. Kit was arrayed in panoply before him as he stood, supplies and equipment inspected minutely and awaiting restorage. The man himself was slightly below Puppet's height, with the blunt features of a boxer.

"Look on the bright side, Early: we're heading into a fucking desert."

"And then it'll be too hot. You're not cheering me at all, sir." Neither was his section, Puppet supposed. These nine strangers who'd never fired a shot in anger. Come to think of it, neither had most of Red Company. At least the noncoms were solid; almost every sergeant and half of the corporals in Red were vets of one border skirmish or another, and Sgt. Jens, it turned out, had done a tour in Ishbal. _Maybe we can find the time to swap horror stories. _Puppet'd heard enough about Jens not to press the issue now, and Early hadn't been forthcoming. He sighed and glanced at the nearby trainyard as the assembled forces gradually boarded. _Come on, we're not even the most distant unit! _

A nearby grenadier pulled his cap further over his eyes, wincing as a fresh gust of wind whipped across the mustering field. One of Early's men, actually. _Berhold, that was it_. A beast of a man inspected the barrel of a bipod-mounted machine-gun, and Puppet swore he could see a bit of tongue protrude from the man's jaw. The private puffed his cheeks out a little, and held the gun to his hip, gripping the bipod and squinting at the searchlights ringing the yard. For a beat Puppet entertained the idea that he could observe the man's thoughts crawling along his forehead. _Provincial fuckwit._ Now more than ever he missed Central. This is what loyalty -_or at least political ineptitude_- bought, he supposed. Tugging the gloves from his hands, he heated the air minutely with a discharge of alchemical energy. A numbness in his throat and a catch in his breath were only the two latest souvenirs he had collected from the South. Straightening hunched shoulders, he lifted his gaze to the distant Headquarters, wherein Major-General Falkender made his residence. He could see the man now, standing in full view on a balcony, a gaggle of adjuncts at his side competing for his attention. Their commander'd done a pretty good job cutting through the bureaucracy when he arrived from Central, but as always the structure reasserted itself. Puppet supposed the general was glad to be leaving the country by this point.

His machinations set the smaller gears of war into a frenzy. There was a snap of conversation stilled and a muted groan as 3rd Battalion moved out, some sketching ironic salutes to their comrades in 4 as they headed towards the heated train cars. Puppet watched them depart and then turned back to the sergeant. He'd met the man - a native of the Sile region bordering Aerugo - on his first inspection of 4th Battalion's Red Company at Falkender's side, and in stilted conversation with the man had gleaned that he'd had his first taste of action back in 1908 during the Ishbal rebellion. He'd made his way gradually upward through the enlisted ranks, and now stood as Platoon Sergeant, running One platoon in conjunction with the presently-absent Second Lieutenant Dietrich. Now he was kneeling in Puppet's shadow, packing his kit. The State Alchemist obligingly moved clear, allowing the harsh light to fall on a man who'd seemed much bigger a moment ago.

---

_"Do you know why I sponsored your qualification as a State Alchemist?"_

_"I can make things explode?" _

_"That was part of it." The general replies, "but paramount in my mind was the need to have eyes on the inside. I needed an observer inside the Laboratories." Puppet sets the cup down onto the saucer and peers at Falkender across the narrow table. _

_"The Fuhrer had frozen the military's upper echelons out of the Labs' research, and you wanted your fingers back in the pie." Streetlamps drip their light through the windows, and an uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling provides the rest of the illumination. The contents of a nearby desk are packed in cardboard, and most of the furniture has been removed. "Honestly, I felt like a glorified jailer."_

_"I suspect that your work in the sixth laboratory will begin to bear fruit shortly after you've been safely reassigned." There's no detectable humour in Falkender's face. "I don't know if you've gotten in touch with any of the other alchemists involved in the same work, but they've likewise been scattered, except for that lunatic Kimbley, who's back in solitary confinement. Fortunately I got to keep my HQ staff. And you."_

_"It's nice to be appreciated, sir." Puppet leans back and folds his arms in his lap. "What's next? With this reassignment there's no way I'll be able to keep up my research; South doesn't have the facilities or the expertise on hand. Am I being seconded to the 6th Division?" Falkender's narrow face twists. _

_"I think it's about time you got your hands dirty." A snort in reply. _

---

"That's it. Axel, get Marder and Sieg up, our slot's coming up in the next few minutes." Early gave the recumbent Jochim a prod with his boot, and looked around at the expectant faces of the other five privates. "Squared away? Then at ease 'til we get called up; support platoon's already on the ramp, so we're next." Sergeants Kessler, Starr and Jens had likewise roused their men, and a moment of eye-contact drew nods from them. "Where's the Lt?" A throat clearing. Early about-faced to watch Dietrich get to his feet, folding a set of departure orders as he did so. "Sorry sir, hadn't noticed you."

"Fine, sergeant. The men are ready?" Jochim had collected himself and joined the others in line. "Great. One platoon!" The soldiers straightened. "With me!"

---

No Amestrine soldier is a stranger to discomfort, and Early came from a line of stoics who could trace their heritage to ancestors sitting outside their yurts and sighing in irritation as horse-borne raiders approached with bows and scimitars. The train car swayed irregularly, transmitting every irregularity in the tracks up through the unpadded seats, and the sound of wind rushing past the open windows was drowned out by conversation. The officers had secured a plusher car closer to the engine, card games had broken out everywhere, and now the enlisted men coughed in the wind-borne dust and looked out over yellowed grassland continuing endlessly to meet the grey sky at the horizon. Distant thunder sounded.

"How come they call you Snowball?" Abrams asked his dark-skinned neighbour. A seat behind, Berhold grinned under his cap.

"You get three guesses."

"You from the east? So it's..." A word struggled to the surface "...ironic?" Friedrich glanced up from his book.

"We already had this conversation; he served up in the Briggs range at Fort Armstrong." Snowball threw the bespectacled man a look of disgust, and Friedrich replied with a shrug.

"Oh." A sting of rain passed through the windows, and the men groaned.

---

_"What's this? Conduct Prejudicial to Military Discipline? I thought you just tried muscling in on someone's political turf?" _And anyway, this would buy you a court martial even in peacetime! _Puppet frowns and lets the green slip fall to the table's surface. _

_"No, my crime was of an entirely different magnitude to both the accusation and the punishment." Falkender's mouth is compressed into a sour line. "Luckily you can't get rid of a Major General very easily, or at least not quietly." _

_"So we both get to enjoy being posted to sunny Southern City-" There's a joke he's reaching for, but Falkender's in no mood. _

_"Right."_

---

Debarkation occurred at a nameless town built around a train depot perched on the edge of the Aerugan border. A concrete apron spead from the railyard, and it was here that Battlegroup Falkender staggered and rolled from the trains. The 23rd Brigade's 4th Battalion, with Red Company numbered amongst their ranks, poured down the ramp and into the face of the southern sun. Sweat soon beaded every forehead and the more canny had already wound shemaghs around their heads to keep out the persistant dust. Officers broke their formations down for a rest period, and lines formed at each of the water tanks recently decanted from the trains. Good-natured jeering accompanied 3rd Battalion's deployment to the grassland surrounding the town to establish a defensive perimeter.

A tent had already been set up for the use of the higher-ups, and Puppet found himself in the company of fifty-odd other officers, with a haze of adjutants and a sprinkling of headquarters staff. Falkender himself was inspecting the ongoing logistical circus act, and the briefing was being delivered by a weasel-faced man whose name Puppet didn't recall. The air stank of sweat and stale coffee, and the nameless colonel's droning voice did little to energise the atmosphere. This far up the chain of command, there seemed to be little anticipation of the coming violence, but Puppet wasn't sure if that was more to do with physical distance from the enemy or from the fighting itself.

"The 6th infantry division is to proceed west-south-west, seizing the railhead at Saragoz; the 12th division will conduct a movement to contact directly south, deep into Aerugan territory, with the eventual aim of cutting enemy lines of communication along the Reyo Chiprana. This river forms a natural defensive barrier for the Aerugans, and forcing a crossing is out of the question. It must be kept in mind that this is a punitive expedition, with the objective of destroying Aerugan industrial assets and dislocating the population of their northern regions. Prolonged engagement with numerically-superior Aerugan regulars on their home soil must be avoided if at all possible, and commanding the Chiprana crossings will allow us to deny the enemy their advantage in numbers." Puppet threw a glance at the ordinance map pinned to the wall behind the operations officer, and noted the shallowness of the Amestrine thrust into the Aerugan plains. The country itself was easily thrice Amestris' size, and only the fractious nature of its peoples and the fearsome reputation of the State's military had held the southerners at bay for this long. Still, the plan looked solid to Puppet's untutored eye. There were only three bridges south-east of Saragoz suitable for major troop movements, and interdicting traffic along these would stop the southlanders from forming any kind of regular response to the Amestrine incursion. Of course, there were over a hundred thousand irregular paramilitaries in northern Aerugo, leaving aside the Orders Limitant in their fastnesses along the border.

When the Fuhrer had drawn the borders so many decades ago, he'd deliberately stopped at the mountains just visible now on the horizon. He'd done the same in the north with the Briggs range, though in that case there'd been historical precedent and defunct fortification already in place. Still, the border was far from Central. Some of these peoples spoke languages Puppet'd never heard of, and had ways as alien to him as the _En_ of long-dead Xerxes. Still, they were all joined under the Amestrine banner, and some served in this army. He'd seen the occasional prayer-fetish hanging from the frames of the troops' canvas tents, and had recognised the Madonna of the Wasps from some of his reading on the region.

The briefing had finished, and Puppet leaned briefly back to stretch his legs as the officers gradually filed out of the tent and dispersed to their respective units. His next priority was seeking out Falkender.

---

_Consciousness doesn't come gradually; his surroundings blink into existance. He's staring at the far wall of a cramped room, faced with cracked and dirty tiles. A mirror hangs above a chipped porcelain sink, filled to overflowing with filthy water. A low hum sounds in his ears, and he can feel the air throbbing. His eyes widen now, and he can discern a rhythmn to the noise, as of distant machinery. His head leans against the wall of the bathtub, and in the mirror all he can see is a naked lightbulb serving only to highlight parts of the dimly-lit room. His recumbant body shifts minutely, and a murmer draws his frightened attention to look downwards at himself. Lying on his back, he is buried shoulder-deep in crushed ice, and the movement of his limbs dislodges countless chips of it, inspiring a further susurration. He lets out a shuddering breath as his eyes adjust and he sees the stump that terminates his right arm. Further along, he can see a single foot peeking from the ice, pale skin making it ghostly in the dimness. The remains of this right arm move and now he can see wires trailing from the bandaged end of the limb, snaking across the mounded surface of the ice and over the side of the tub. More wires emerge from the ice at the far end, looping around the rusted taps. A low cry of horror empties his lungs, and he lunges to a sitting position, then levers himself out with his remaining leg. He reaches to brace his fall with a missing arm, and his cheekbone cracks against the rough concrete of the floor. Blond hair drifts across his vision, and his eyes close. _

_Time passes._

_His eyes open. He remains still, listening to the hum. Despite his nakedness and the caul of frost lining his skin, he does not shiver. His breath hitching with effort, he rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. In his earlier panic, he'd not noticed the dully-painted diagram on the ceiling. It is unmistakeably an alchemical array, deactivated at some point by a jagged line cut through the ceiling tiles. The tang of ozone in the air tells him this happened not long ago, perhaps only scant minutes previously. Calmer now, he hold his truncated arm above his face, watching the cabling snake along him. His eyes follow the wires' trail to a door at his left side, left ajar. Eyes back to the stump. He reaches up, clenches a fist around the tubing, and pulls as hard as he can. _

_Time passes. _

_The return to wakefulness is much faster now; no more than a few seconds could have passed. The bandages around his arm are soaked red, and a faint fizzing noise has joined the distant hum. Struggling into a sitting position, he decides to unwrap his leg more carefully. _

_There'd obviously been no time for care, as the cables are held to the ragged edge of his left leg by scissoring clips, simple enough to remove. The fizzing is louder now, and a sickly smile emerges on his face. He's backed up to one of the walls for support now, and he casts around for anything else of note. There is something written in blood on the mirror. He drags himself across the grimy floor and up to the tub, and gingerly raises himself to sit on the bath's edge. The message is short enough. The smile returns for a moment, and then fades. He stares into the cloudy water within the sink. Glancing towards the door, he reaches forward and lowers his hand into the basin. His fingers quest in lazy patterns as he sits, his attention fixed on the water. Presently a grin darkens his face and he withdraws his hand, clutching something tightly. There is hiss of subliminating stone, and his hand is open once more, empty. Deliberately, he closes his eyes for a third time and presses an elbow to the sink, leaning his head on the chill porcelain. In the cold confines of the room, somatic regeneration proceeds slowly, but there's all the time in the world now. _

_He is malnourished and weak, but he can still stand, and now crosses to the steel door. Dragging it open reveals foreign alphanumerics on the outer side, and the dark expanse of a communal shower. Dirt has long since blocked the drains, and puddles contest the floor-space, leaving a narrow path to the opposite wall, where another doorway is visible. The humming noise from before is now revealed as the product of an portable electric generator set atop a table near the other doorway. Cables trail from it to run past his feet and into the bathroom. Further wires lead to a ceramic plate carefully inscribed with an alchemical array, and his eyes narrow with recognition. _


	2. Left foot Right

**2. Left foot Right **

Early tried in vain to rub the grit from his face. The sun had been swallowed by the horizon moments before, and an ominous red glow remained on the right of the awakening column. Friedrich was already up; he'd been part of the night watch, and weariness had hollowed out his eyes. Early clapped him on the shoulder and set to waking the others. Marder and Jochim had already been stirred to wakefulness by the fall of darkness, and each now arose from their pioneer graves and trudged to meet their sergeant. Their division had been inching along towards the Aerugan border each night, travelling a mere ten miles per hour in their trucks, headlights dimmed. Night brought the camel-spiders and scorpions crawling from their lairs, banishing any desire to stay in the relative comfort of the hastily-dug sleeping pits.

"Get some coffee going, we aren't moving out for another hour or so." They nodded and Early continued his walk along the roadside, past scattered pioneer graves and piles of equipment. Some wag had erected a sign reading _Crater City, 120 miles!_ Ahead was Lieutenant Dietrich, hunched over a map with Jens. His gaze rose to meet Early's as he heard the platoon sergeant's approach.

"I don't know who we pissed off, but we just got spearhead detail."

---

Dawn was less than an hour away, and Dietrich felt as if he was perched on a precipice staring down into darkness. His platoon formed a link in the chain encircling the slumbering Aerugan base visible a shade under two miles away. This battle would formally mark the Amestrine invasion, and would be executed with overwhelming force. Estimates placed the base's garrison at battalion level, roughly five hundred fighting men. They were expected to be well-armed and trained to a high standard, and once alerted would quickly move to prepared positions. Once the attack was underway, they'd call for help, only to find that their phone lines had been cut in the night, courtesy of Special Operations.

In the forefront of the attack were the second and fourth battalions of the twenty-third infantry brigade, the 2/23rd and 4/23rd. The 3/23rd would remain in reserve, much to third battalion's chagrin. This attack force represented only a third of the 6th Division's manpower, but it would be supported by the full strength of the divisional artillery, some fifty howitzers in total. Six tanks had also been committed to the attack, and waited in defilade to Dietrich's left, their engines ticking over. The twenty-third was arrayed in classic "two up, one back" formation, with the 3/23rd forming the rear point of a triangle and the 2/23rd and 4/23rd forming the flat base. This pattern repeated fractally down to the company level, with White and Red deploying ahead of Blue, and the 4/23rd's heavy weapons company, Green, at their flank. Dietrich's platoon, as part of Red Company, would therefore be in the first (and hopefully _only_) wave of attack. He'd already exchanged some final words with sergeants Starr, Kessler and Jens, and now crouched in the cover of a dune with Early, standing by with the platoon's radio for the order to attack. The rest of Early's section lay nearby, all eyes on the distant Aerugan outpost. The shemaghs the troops habitually wore to keep out the dust left only their eyes bare, making it hard to discern their thoughts. Dietrich thought they were, by and large, doing a good job of hiding their pre-battle shakes. Friedrich's glasses kept sliding down his thin nose, and Jochim's hands unceasingly clenched on a small bronze pendant in the shape of a serpent. A good luck charm, most likely. Abrams and Marder exchanged some low words, their gaze flicking to the tanks concealed nearby. Dietrich's thoughts were interrupted by a whisper from Sieg.

_"Sir! The Boss wants you at the head-shed; some last minute pep talk or something." _Sieg was one of the section's more dependable soldiers; a policeman for two years in Aquroya. Despite being part of Dietrich's platoon, he was more often posted at Red Company's headquarters, serving as one of the messengers that each platoon kept at Captain Haumaier's command post if the need for radio-silent communication came up. Now he trailed Dietrich back to the forward CP. It wasn't much to look at, an olive-drab tent splayed over a table laden with maps and radios, a lonely field telephone resting on a chair, and a worn-out captain presiding over an equally grey command team. A storm lamp cast a red glow over the proceedings. Red Company's other lieutenants arrived alongside Dietrich, filling the already cramped command post.

"Coffee, anyone?" The captain looked up from a map plotting the battle plan. "No? Fine, gather round." A series of revisions had been inked on the map in red, and Haumaier's flashlight followed their trails. "Ok, this is pretty elementary stuff, but Battalion decided to give us some prior warning instead of springing it on us as we move. Red's going to flank around the base's western side, so we'll be doing some eleventh-hour repositioning, heading to Green's right flank." Muted groans. "On the plus side, we'll have the tanks screening our movement, so we should be ok. Ok, get the fuck out of here, back to your men. You've got half an hour to unass and redeploy."

Dietrich jogged back to his platoon's position in the lee of a shallow dune. Hand signals drew the platoon's sergeants together, and the platoon's movement was planned out. Soon the men were jogging through the grit and passing Green Company's dug-in mortars and heavy machine guns, their bodies low to the ground and their voices low. Occasionally, glances were thrown at the enemy positions, but there was no sign of alertness. It was a moonless night, lit only by flashes of lightning from storms piled on the Aerugan mountains, promising an arriving storm.

Within twenty minutes the men were settled again, and Dietrich lay prone, peering at the Aerugan fortifications through his field glasses. Magnified, the enemy base wasn't particularly impressive. A set of concrete barracks, garages and equipment sheds surrounded a central parade ground and were enclosed in turn by a chain-link fence. Guard towers sat at each corner, and armoured pillboxes guarded the front and rear entrances. A concrete-lined trench sat forward of the fence, zig-zagging to provide fighting positions for the garrison in case of an attack. Still, their location presupposed advance warning of attack, unless there were tunnels connecting them to the barracks. Dietrich shrugged the thought away. _We're expecting a fight anyway_. He turned to Early.

"Sarge, what're your thoughts on this one?" He passed the man his binoculars. The staff sergeant accepted them and took a look himself.

"Those trenches out front? The tanks aren't going to get past them. That's probably the reason for our redeployment." He lowered the glasses. "They'll have tunnels linking those to their barracks, stops them being caught out in the open. Noticed the zig-zags? Even once we've flanked them, our enfilading fire won't hit the whole trench, so we're probably better off tossing a few grenades, then bypassing them and hitting the barracks; they'll have a command post in there somewhere." He caught Dietrich's eye. "Looks like this could be a career-making action, if you want my opinion." The second lieutenant grimaced and looked again at the entrenchments.

"Heading through the wire didn't even occur to me." Early grinned tightly in the gloom.

"Don't worry LT, that's what I'm here for." The radio crackled. Both men turned to look, and Dietrich grabbed the handset. Over the channel came a terse message: _Red Company, Haumaier. Execute. Repeat, execute._

"That's it," breathed Dietrich. He drew his flashlight and blinked twice at each section's position. A constellation of blinks answered him.

"Everybody up," hissed Early "we need to move before those bastards wake up!" The rest of the section rose. Ahead, the squads under Jens, Kessler and Starr had moved out, padding forward as ten-man skirmish lines, rifles held in readiness. The platoon's progress was mirrored to their left as the rest of Red Company moved out, ochre uniforms near-invisible against the sand. The eastern horizon beyond held a red dimness that seemed to presage the day's coming bloodshed. Dietrich flinched as a snarl sounded behind him, and he turned to see the battalion's tank detachment crawling forward, churning the sand under their treads as they kept pace with the advancing infantry.

The lightning had stopped some time before, but now the horizon lit up again as the State's artillery spoke, sending fountains of earth skywards and blasting the Aerugan base. The artillery would fire a handful of massed salvoes before leaving the infantry to do their work. As the first detonations sounded, the skirmish line broke into a jog, weapons braced and eyes straining at the objective. Beside Dietrich, Jochim stuck close with the platoon's radio, and visible alongside him was Doc Maxwell, from the brigade's medical detachment. He'd first met the man after they'd disembarked, and the medic had insisted on each man in the platoon wearing a set of ready field dressings around their necks. No-one had been able to argue with the flint-eyed corpsman, and Dietrich was sure his pre-preparation would pay off in future.

Now he could hear the sharp crack of mortar fire, the support platoons of each company opening up with their own artillery. Next came the machineguns, sending streams of tracer fire arcing lazily into the enemy encampment. The Aerugans were only four hundred metres away, now. The southerners replied with their own automatic weapons, muzzle flashes lighting up each guard tower. However, the heavy weapons platoons soon found their targets, and the towers came apart in a shower of splinters and pulverised flesh.

The sun was visible now, and revealed clouds of smoke hanging above the camp, the light from burning buildings illuminating everything else. The Aerugans were fighting back in earnest now, rifle fire erupting from the trenches and the windows of each barracks building, their firepower pitifully inadequate against the 23rd brigade's. Dietrich's platoon dived to the ground as they too were noticed, Aerugan bullets singing over their heads. The range was still long for accurate rifle fire, but the Aerugans needed to work their bolt-action rifles after every shot, whereas Dietrich's men could empty their magazines at the distant enemy before needing to reload. To his left, the lieutenant saw Abrams drop prone, resting his light machinegun on its bipod and firing a series of bursts at the enemy. Spent casings littered the ground next to him, and a fixed grin was plastered to his face.

Dietrich raised his head and shouted over the cacophany of battle, "Friedrich! Berhold! Get to Jens and Starr and tell them to leap-frog their squads forward, bounding overwatch-" A roll of staccato cannon blasts behind him, the light throwing every man into shocking relief against the ground. "-No, forget that! Tell them to get behind the tanks and keep advancing! Axel, get the same message to Kessler!" Nods all around. The squadron of light tanks had passed the prone infantry by, rolling forward at walking pace heedless of enemy gunfire. Their short-barrelled 37mm cannon spoke again, and explosions blossomed on the barracks buildings and along the Aerugan trenches. Each tank also boasted a pair of hull-mounted machine guns, and these fired ceaselessly, showering the southerners with lead. Dietrich motioned the rest of the squad up and sprinted to take cover behind the nearest of the steel monsters. He shouldered his submachinegun and mantled onto the tank's rear hull, making his way to the turret, banging his fist on the closed hatch. It popped open and the lieutenant found himself eye-to-eye with the vehicle's commander.

"Get the fuck off my vehicle!"

"Fuck your vehicle! Can you make a hole in their perimeter fence?" The man turned to look at the approaching wall as bullets swarmed past them.

"Our orders are to hit the trenches and forward bunkers!" They were screaming in each other's faces as the cannons fired again.

"I don't have time to go through the proper channels! Drive your tank through the wire and then go back to the attack, I don't give a shit! Just give my men an opening!" The other man paused and then nodded. He crouched further down in the turret and relayed orders to his driver. Abruptly the tank veered to the right, almost throwing Dietrich clear. He crouched lower and looked up. Ahead of them, Aerugan soldiers were visible on the roofs of the barracks buildings, taking potshots at Red company as it advanced. Higher up, they were perfect targets for every heavy machinegun in the brigade, and the fire took a terrible toll.

Dietrich took stock from his perch on top of the tank. His platoon seemed intact, with each section huddling behind or on top of a tank, firing when they could. Jens had gotten his squad's machinegunner to brace his weapon on the rails of their tank's cupola, adding what seemed a meagre amount to the armoured units' firepower. This close to the base, the lieutenant could make out the mangled forms of Aerugan personnel caught in the open during the artillery strike, and he could see the destruction wrought by the constant stream of machinegun fire, blasting showers of concrete from the buildings the garrison sheltered within. The frontal component of the attack had made steady progress, the 2/23rd advancing to almost point-blank range to engage the defensive trenches under supporting fire. The rest of the 4/23rd was likewise on the advance, and Dietrich saw grenades detonate among the defenders. He cast around for Jochim and saw him leaning around the tank, firing his rifle. Rolling from the tank, he grabbed the handset from the man's backpack radio. _"Red HQ, One Platoon. Ready to breach western perimeter with support of tank group. Notify support and Green that we are danger close!" _In other words, the mortar fire on this section of the base needed to stop.

_"Roger, One Platoon. Red HQ out." _The enemy were within spitting distance now, and Dietrich rose slightly from behind the turret to loose a burst of submachinegun fire through a window as a hint of movement caught his eye. Beneath him the tank dove forward once more, smashing through the seemingly insubstantial perimeter fence. It idled for a moment, and then began to reverse; if experience had taught the tank corps anything, it was that urban engagements were bad news, fit only for the infantry. Dietrich slapped the turret hatch once more in thanks, and slid from the vehicle, landing in a crouch next to Early.

"I would have suggested wire cutters, sir." The lieutenant barked a laugh as Early motioned the squad through the breach. The other squads had gotten the idea, and to their right Starr's tank broke through, continuing on into the base. Still further beyond, Red's third platoon hit the wall with a satchel charge, tearing a gap in the wire. As Early's section ran for the cover of a blasted barracks wall, a private Dietrich didn't recognise sprinted up, out of breath.

"S-sir! The LT -our Lieutenant- I mean, Lieutenant Irons in second platoon say he'll stay at the end of the trench system and secure your flank!" Dietrich nodded in reply and sent the messenger back on his way.

"Ok, first platoon hold here! Who's the least out-of-breath?" Every hand in the section rose. "Hah! Marder, get to Starr and tell him to get that tank back to the rest of the armour and rejoin us." The building they sheltered beside had collapsed under the weight of the Division's opening barrage, and Kessler and Jens had found cover for their squads in the ruins. As Dietrich gave his orders, Early pulled off his helmet and held it over the edge of the rubble. Satisfied, he peered over their shelter and across the parade ground. Pre-positioned barricades, oil drums filled with gravel, had been arranged to cover each exit from the barrack buildings, and each makeshift barrier sheltered a squad of Aerugan regulars, firing over the heads of their compatriots further forward in the trenches. Early glanced further to the right. _Shit, they've got a-_

The Aerugan anti-tank gun spat a round at the platoon, the shell colliding with a section of wall bare metres from Early. Choking in the dust, he fell behind the barrier. Dietrich's head whipped around in alarm.

"AT gun! They've got a bead on us!" The other two squads had opened up on the barricades, but the AT crew had their sights set on Early's section. "Sir, I've got this! Abrams, Friedrich, on me!" _No fucker fires a fucking cannon at my fucking face! Fuck! _The LT nodded and motioned for the rest of the section to relocate.

Early ran in low loping strides, the two privates barely keeping pace. The sergeant risked another glance over the rubble. _Close enough. _He pulled a stick grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin. Waited a few seconds. Friedrich blanched and started to say something, and Early hurled the bomb overarm, sending it along a shallow arc to land next to the AT crew's gun shield. For a moment Early swore he could see their pupils constrict. The detonation obscured the enemy in a flash of dust, a blood-soaked sleeve visible for a moment. As the dust fell away to reveal two mangled corpses, the three Amestrine soldiers braced their weapons and fired on the other barricades. Early's finger tightened on the trigger, and the enemy filled his sight.

Fire at any movement.

Fire at anything that's stopped moving.

Just to be sure.

Empty the whole fucking magazine.

---

_He must in some kind of bunker system, because every door he finds is an armoured hatch, adjacent to a narrow slit demonstrating the metre thickness of each wall. There are rifle racks and ammunition bins at each one, and the chipped surfaces of the surrounding walls attest to some kind of action here. Every door has been thrown open. _

_He wanders up stairwells, his nakedness an unwelcome imposition in this grim environment. Most of the lights have failed, and for a few levels he feels his way upward, both hands clenched around the handrail. After what could only have been minutes of ascent, he looks out on a communal area, a mess hall in all likelihood. It's empty like the rest of the complex, but the furniture remains, benches in disarray as if the hall had been evancuated hastily. He starts as a siren echoes through the complex, distorted by its journey through miles of cold concrete hallways. The blast continues for a handful of seconds, and then accedes to the silence. _

_Beyond the mess hall are the personnel quarters. Spots of blood are visible here and there on the floor and walls. A set of clothes sits, neatly folded, at the edge of one bunk. Trousers, white shirt, jacket. A pair of boots rest on the floor. He smiles privately. _

_A wide concrete staircase grants access to an entrance chamber. A freight elevator looms in the corner, and there are patches of dampness on the concrete floor. He looks up to see veins of moisture reaching out from minute cracks in the ceiling, drops of water raining down with barely perceptible rings against the floor. The ceiling itself is cylindrical in form, and draws his attention to an armoured door in the distant, unlit side of the room. A flickering field light sits next to it, focused on a man-sized access door. This is as clear a sign as he will receive. _

_The door leads to a room that in turn is promised to lead to the outside world. This isn't immediately apparent, because there is a severed head resting on the room's only item of furniture, a chair. The head sits in a pool of red fluid. As he approaches, it blinks, and mouths a single word._

_A smile distorts his face._


	3. This is the tragedy Man

**3. This is the tragedy "Man"**

Puppet trudged through the hissing sand, goggles fixed over his eyes. Through the dust, the moonlight shifted, chasing blurred shadows along the ground. Division HQ was lit up like an Ishbalan bazaar at dusk, visible through the sleeting clouds of grit. Camouflage netting had been thrown across the ruined bulk of an ancient temple surmounted by the worn figure of a stone harpy, detail etched from its face by time. He'd forgotten to wrap a shemagh around his face, and the alchemist's mouth curled as he tried to spit out some sand, settling into a resigned grimace as he neared the cluster of tents. Throwing the sentry a desultory salute, he made to enter. The canvas walls rippled in the wind, surrounded by a waist-high sandbag barricade. Unclasping the entrance's fastenings, he stepped across the threshold and out of the relative calm of the storm.

The Division HQ was a buzz of activity, built around the message centre. Three shifts of signal corps personnel worked tirelessly, letting Falkender and his headquarters company bring the Division's unwieldy bulk into motion. Like fabled Behemoth, it could only move slowly, and reacted to attack with ponderous might.

The 6th and 12th Divisions had long since parted ways, as Battlegroup Falkender split in two to handle the demands of the Fuhrer's campaign. While Falkender himself remained in nominal command of the 12th, the distance was too great for effective leadership, and he trusted in his junior, Major-General Blaine, to sucessfully hold the line along the Reyo Chiprana.

After their signal victory at the Aerugan border, the battlegroup had proceeded unmolested more than forty miles into enemy territory, necessitating a halt while their lengthened supply lines were able to establish a new supply point further forward. Major-General Falkender leant on a creaking table that spanned the far side of the message centre, hovering over soldiers from the Signals company constantly working the switchboards. The 2/22nd was in the process of fighting off a night attack, their enemy Aerugan irregulars down from the hills, the so-called Broken Lances. A sound like thunder rose above as the divisional artillery fired in support of the dug-in grenadiers, and Falkender's eyes flicked up to fix Puppet.

"You'll accompany the cavalry to the 2/22nd's bivouac. They're waiting at the wire." he said flatly. Puppet's salute was less sketchy this time.

"...yes, sir." He strode away.

The convoy sat, as promised, at the wire barrier delineating the end of the camp and the beginning of the temporary minefields the pioneers threw down every time Division HQ settled. A squadron of six tanks hunched alongside ten armoured cars from the division's armoured cavalry troop. Painted along the flank of the second car in line was a fairly neat depiction of the rampant Amestrine dragon swallowing a stylised Aerugan wasp. The troop commander looked up as Puppet approached.

"Major, just in time!" The captain gave the alchemist a hand up into his command vehicle. The thinly-armoured car had a soft top that provided scant relief from the scouring dust, but it was better than nothing. As he sat, the captain reached down, selecting a stone from a small pile on the floor of the vehicle's bed. Puppet stared quizzically as the officer pitched it, striking the lead tank's turret. The captain caught his look and explained, "It's the storm fouling up our radios; the blasted dust gets into _everything_." Now the tank commander had emerged and turned to face the captain. Clenching his fist, he waved his arm in the _go_ signal. The convoy shuddered into motion.

---

_He feels the sand beneath his feet, between his toes. The Aerugan man sitting by the fire looks up (his eyes are red) and smiles, motioning for him to sit beside the fire. He smiles as well, and presses the muzzle of his pistol to the man's forehead._

This was the third night enlivened by that dream. Early woke with a start, eyes flicking around the shaded length of the tent. His nerves were on fire, and he sighed at the unfairness of it. Safely behind the lines at the 4/23rd's supply dump, Red Company was taking what amounted to R and R, spending their days riding shotgun on the field convoys keeping the rest of 4/23rd fed, and then - untold luxury! - falling asleep on bedrolls within the shelter of a tent as night fell. Rumours abounded that irregulars were about to pour out of the mountains and swamp the State forces, but apart from the Lances further south, the quasi-religious factions that the Aerugans had ceded border control to - the Orders Limitant - had been utterly silent. The Special Operatives had alluded to hidden troop movements and the building up of supplies, but Early knew they thrived on that kind of cloak-and-dagger stuff. He wasn't complacent, though. The border forces, their honour sullied, would either turn and attack - as the Lances had - or bide their time, waiting for the State's forces to be attrited by combat before striking out at its vulnerable flank. Not that Old Man Falkender would let that happen; he'd no doubt dispatch the SOs and picked detachments of troops to root out the Orders in their mountain fastnesses before they became a real thorn in Division's side.

Settling further down in his cot, the sergeant stared at the moon, a glimmer through the canvas. It took an instant of conscious effort to hear the sand whistling past the walls; the noise had been ubiquitous for the last few days. Over the muffled roar, he fancied he could hear the squad breathe. He'd expected Abrams, at least, to snore, but the big man slept silently, and none of the others broke the hush within the tent. Despite the hour, he suddenly felt no need for sleep. The voice of experience shrieked within him. _Grab every second you can. This may be the last chance you'll have to rest. Fatigue dulls your edge, gets your men killed. _He forced his eyes shut, and willed dreamless sleep to come.

---

The car bucked as it traversed the broken ground, knocking about the men within. The cavalry troop's commander, going by the name Kilgore, had been pleased to make Puppet's acquaintance once he'd recognised the badge of a State Alchemist. The convoy had travelled as a staggered column for the last half an hour, as rough country roads faded into unmarked dirt and scrub, and now they neared the fighting. The storm had begun to clear, allowing an awesome starlit vista to open up ahead of them. At each horizon loomed the mountains of the border zone, their chill heights glistening. As they approached, shells whickered overhead and threw the approaching ridges into relief against the star-specked sky.

One of Kilgore's men had manage to coax the vehicle's radio back into working order, and had made contact with the 2/22nd's headquarters. Their field telephone lines had been cut, but they'd managed intermittent radio contact with Division HQ since the convoy's departure.

"This is it, Major: up the next ridge and we'll have direct sight of the 2/22nd's field base." Kilgore's eyes were unreadable behind their field goggles, but his bared teeth shone. The tanks were outpacing them now, their broad treads and lozenge-shaped hulls leaving them well-equipped for the navigation of treacherously sandy inclines. The armoured car wove back and forth across the face of the ridge, gradually gaining purchase. Then the base came into view.

The second battalion, 22nd Infantry Brigade had made their camp on the crown of a wide, low-slung mound that looked out across the plain, unchallenged except by the ridges the convoy now crossed. The entire battle was lit in actinic intensity; mortars raining star-shells down on the perimeter, and threads of tracer fire swinging down the slope, where here and there Puppet could see irregulars concealed behind boulders and in ditches, exposing themselves as little as possible as they fought. Puppet had come from a scientific background instead of a martial one, but here he had no problem discerning the tactical problem facing the 2/22nd. Night's fall and the ferocity of the storm had allowed the Lances to exploit the terrain, slipping past the listening post that should have been established outside the battalion's perimeter and closing to within a hundred metres of the Amestrine position. _Danger close_. Two words encapsulating the fear inspired by even friendly artillery. Puppet gazed open-eyed as another barrage landed, utterly obliterating an swathe of empty field. With the enemy concentrated so close, Division's firepower was essentially neutered, useful only for preventing retreat. In the face of the enemy's fanatical resistance, that wasn't a great comfort. Still, broken bodies scattered no closer than fifty metres of the Amestrine fighting positions spoke of their continued discipline, and even as the convoy gained the top of the ridge another assault was repulsed, the survivors scuttling to safety as bullets threw up showers of dirt.

"Shit, the apes have a whole battalion down there, at least." Kilgore grabbed the radio's handset and began barking orders.

"Captain, this is where I leave you." Kilgore looked at him, aghast. "Don't fret, this is my area of expertise. Thank you for the ride." The alchemist eased over the car's door and dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch with his eyes fixed on the battle ahead. Without looking down, he tugged the gloves from his hands. On the left, an alchemical array was revealed, spidery lines tatooed across each surface, converging on the palm. He rose, framing the scene before him, dozens of Aerugan irregulars, _apes_, holding fast in the dead ground below the State positions. A dance of alchemical energy lit up the array and ahead sparks danced along the ground, jumping across the startled Lances with no ill effect. Puppet released a breath in a convulsive shudder, and looked up. "Captain? Order the tanks to fire when ready." Perplexed, the officer nodded. A moment later and the snub-nosed barrels spat, their shells detonating amidst the Aerugans-

-and being completely subsumed in the hellishly bright glare of an explosion that wreathed the bottom of the hill in fire. Thunder rolled over the 2/22nd on a wave of dust. The twisted cloud above the detonation lingered for a moment, then frayed in the desert wind, revealing a smooth-sided crater where before the Lances had rallied. At its periphery a scattered few lay, apparently intact. The entire battle paused for a further few seconds, and then the guerrillas broke, all but the most die-hard throwing down their weapons and running for the hills.

"Major, what did you _do?_" Puppet pulled his gaze from the crater.

"Let's join the second battalion." He smiled thinly. "Your men are heroes now."

---

Dietrich and Early strode along the buried length of an ancient highway as they approached the temple Division HQ had reclaimed. The eyeless stone woman perched above the capstone still managed to regard them balefully as they trudged into the command tent, letting a shaft of unfiltered daylight in with them. Dietrich brought his eyes up as he entered and pulled up short as he recognised Captain Haumaier. He resisted the urge to salute; the HQ was still technically in the field, and saluting a superior was an excellent way of wishing them death by sniper. He stepped further forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of Red Company's lieutenants, gathered around the captain. As he nodded at Irons from Two platoon, Major-General Falkender looked up from the table he'd been working at and turned to face the gathered officers.

"That's it? Good." Falkender wasn't a particularly remarkable man; of average height, sporting an impressive moustache matching hair bleached by age. Round spectacles gave the Old Man a somewhat fatherly appearance, but his posture was impeccable and Dietrich straightened further still as the general's gaze rested upon him for a moment. "The captain will brief you in-depth later, but for now I need volunteers and you're them. Special Ops have identified a guerrilla stronghold in the mountains and Red Company is tasked with erasing it. The major here will provide support to the extent it proves necessary." Now Dietrich noticed the man standing at Falkender's side, the soot-dulled gleam of a State Alchemist's pocket-watch visible at his hip. He'd spoken briefly with the man, in what seemed an age ago back at the mustering ground deep in South City, and had never learned his name.

---

Red Company inched along through the brush, an ochre column dragging their feet in the parched soil. Early cast hooded eyes along the ridge looming ahead of them, the latest knife-edged barrier in a series they'd conquered so far, these weary miles out from the western encampments. The plains beyond the border mountains were visible only as a flat sliver over the farthest rises to the south, coloured a dull red in the light of the sinking sun. There was a crackle from Jochim's radio and Dietrich reached out for the proffered handset. He listened for a moment.

"Copied, sir. One platoon out." He replaced the handset and shouldered his gun, reaching for a canteen as he met Early's look. "We're stopping here and digging in for the night. Get the men dispersed." Early nodded and hopped atop a nearby rock, catching Axel's attention. The junior sergeant stood at the back of the platoon, and he signalled his understanding. The three sections ground to a weary halt, each squad falling apart as men found places to sit and shucked off their webbing, loaded down with water and ammunition. After a brief respite, the sergeants took over, assigning tasks and cursing the grunts out of their torpitude.

"Get those fox-holes ready! Sweat now, or you'll bleed later!" Jens' bellow was clearly audible and brought a smile to Early's face. He looked expectantly at his squad, and with a groan they got their entrenching tools clear and began hacking at the ground. Dietrich, Early and Sieg remained standing, eyes out in every direction to provide local security. Back to the east, down a slight slope, the rest of Red dug in. A line of mules was being led upward by a sour-looking corporal from Red's command section. The vile animals carried the company's rations and additional ammunition, leaving the men only their essentials and freeing them for combat. Accompanying the junior NCO were a gaggle of privates: the company cook and his assistants. Tonight their culinary talents were exercised only in the doling out of mess tins and cardboard-packed ration boxes.

After some initial resistance, the baked earth had proven amenable to excavation and now each member of the squad stood within a deepening waist-high hole, dirt piling up at each parapet. Sieg had been reassigned to sand-bag duty and Dietrich's place in the watch had been replaced by Axel, with the second lieutenant making his way down-hill to put his head together with the other officers and work out the company's defensive disposition. Now the LT was making his way back to One platoon, a quintet of grenadiers from the heavy weapons platoon in tow. Their senior introduced himself as Corporal Moresby, and the four privates under his command made up one of Red's two machine-gun teams. Their tripod mounted weapon had a long, air-cooled barrel and outsized Abrams' LMG by a fair margin. Three of the gunners began assembling the weapon while Moresby and the fourth began hacking out a pit for the weapon next to Connol's fox-hole. The rest of the squad had completed their pits and now converged on the pile of ration packs at the edge of their makeshift camp.

The State's "C" Field rations consisted of three cans of tinned meat per man, one tin of vegetables, and a packet of crackers. The men wolfed them down cold, unwilling to build a fire in the enemy's territory. Early dug in his pocket and brought out a four-ounce chocolate bar, "D" ratio issue. He made a habit of saving the things; they were too bitter to eat unless you were desperate, which was the entire point. He still needed something to take the edge off after the "C", though. Munching slowly, he swept his eyes over the rest of the company. The whole thing was spread out in a roughly triangular shape, a rifle platoon forming each corner and the HQ section buried in the middle with the weapon platoon's mortars. The rest of Heavy Weapons had been split between One, Two and Three platoons to provide extra perimeter security. A party had been detached from HQ to mark out firing lanes for each machine-gun and set trip-flares at likely lay-up points for enemy scouts.

"Connol, you're first up on night watch." The private nodded uphappily and accepted a pair of binoculars and an extra canteen from Dietrich. The stars were dimly visible against the darkening sky, and the lieutenant stared for a moment. Growing up with Central's light pollution meant that Aerugo's stars were the first ones he'd really had time to sit and gaze at. They weren't worth it, though. Not with everything else he'd seen.

Early sat back in his fox-hole and pulled his rain-cape over to cover the entrance, hoping to trap some warmth within as the night gradually grew chill. His eyes had lain closed for an hour before they flew open again, the smiling Aerugan fading from his vision as gunshots sounded. The sergeant bolted upright, fixing a magazine in his submachine-gun as he rose. Eyes narrowed, he lifted the rain-cape's edge and scanned the mounded top of the ridge. _There_. A muzzle-flash, a hint of movement, figures caught for a moment by the starlight. Three hundred metres away, but closing at a steady lope. Early threw aside the cape and raised his voice.

"Squad, fingers on triggers!" The others were rising now, and Connol, nearing the end of his shift, had already emptied one magazine at the enemy and was crouched down, the top of his helmet visible as he brought another home. More to direct the squad than in the hope of actually hitting anything, Early fired a burst at the rushing shapes, hearing the squad's rifles join him one by one. Abrams opened up with the light machine-gun, expending an entire drum of ammunition with a sound like tearing cloth. There was a shout from Moresby and the heavy machine-gun opened up, its incessant howl drowning out the rest of One platoon as it spat red tracer rounds in an arc, over the heads of the advancing guerrillas. The gunners adjusted their weapon and the chain of glowing rounds was interrupted shockingly as one irregular fell into its line of fire, his death a pause in the red stream as a hail of bullets pulped his torso. Heedless of the fire, the Aerugans continued to close, screaming in their incomprehensible tongue as they ran, shooting from the hip or kneeling for a moment to loose an aimed shot. Dirt danced into the air near Early and he snarled, crouching further and resting the barrel of his gun atop the fox-hole's parapet. The guns continued to chatter and a star-shell drifted overhead in a lazy arc, casting its glow over the battlefield and narrowing the night into knife-edged shadows. "Berhold, Sieg, hit that fucker with the grenade," Early yelled as a guerrilla brought his arm back, a stick bomb clenched in his hand. Red stars bloomed on the man's chest and he fell to his knees, losing his grip on the grenade. It detonated a moment later, driving him face-first into the ground.

The remaining guerrillas had taken cover on the reverse slope of the ridge's other side, exposed to Two platoon's fire but out of Early's sight. A few feet away, Dietrich struggled out his fox-hole and cast around, grabbing his webbing and submachine-gun.

"Sarge, I'm taking Jens' squad and flanking the bastards. Hold here."

"Understood, sir," Early replied "no heroics, right?" The lieutenant's eyes were in shadow as he grinned. Bounding across the dead space between the dug-in squads, he brought up Jens' men with a gesture and the eleven of them set off at a jog, heading towards the ridge's crown. As they approached, each man dropped flat to avoid silhouetting themselves, and every second man primed a grenade. Three hundred metres away, Early heard the collective shout from his fox-hole: _"Frag out!"_ Plumes of dirt rose from behind the ridge and the men rose swiftly, darting forward the last few feet to the summit and dropping prone once more, each man in a firing position.

Dietrich's world narrowed down as if viewed through a telescope. Below him, a platoon's worth of Aerugans, at least forty men, lay crouched or prone, exchanging fire with the Amestrine troops further down-hill. Some had been torn by the volley of frag grenades, and still others rolled to focus on the new threat to their flank. Eyes widened in dirt-smeared faces and rifles swung to regard the enfilading squad. _Too slow!_

Moments later, they looked down on a score of corpses. A groan sounded and the men fired again on reflex.

"Cease fire," he raised his voice, "_cease fire!_ Snowball, get Doc up here." He'd begun to look back at the wounded when the gunfire started afresh; a second detachment of Lances coming from the north. Dietrich swore and wriggled further into cover as tracers swung overhead, out of the darkness. _The bastards have a machine-gun. _By the sound of it, one of the cumbersome water-cooled models that ape central command happily dispensed to the feudalistic border groups. The gun was set up in defilade on an adjacent ridge, and the second wave of guerrillas were advancing under the cover it provided. Jens coaxed the men into opening fire once more, and ahead one of the advancing figures dropped to the ground as if his strings had been cut.

Dietrich started as a man dove to the ground beside him. It was the alchemist accompanying Red, and he'd brought a section from Three platoon with him. Tugging the shemagh from over his mouth, he faced the lieutenant.

"Have you started zeroing in the mortars?" Dietrich blanched; he'd been too caught up in the firefight. Hastily he grabbed a handset from Jens' radioman and tugged out a spare pair of binoculars. The newly-arrived squad was dispersing into firing positions, and more of the guerrillas ahead staggered and fell.

Puppet dared a look above the ridge's summit. Exposed like this, it was damn lucky the irregulars had no field artillery with them. On their own initiative, the mortars had launched star-shells beyond Dietrich's position, putting a spotlight on the advancing guerrillas. _That gun's a little far for line-of-sight transmutation, but these men out in the open..._

_"Ease!" _Bellowed the unnamed major. That was a signal in the artillery corps, a sign to open the mouth before the cannon fired and the air pressure changed. The rest of the men repeated the yell on instinct. Dietrich had given the fire-for-effect order only an instant before his vision was washed out by a blast that outshone the star-shells and gave way to a boiling crimson cloud of ash and smoke that rose before the ridge. His ears sore and ringing, he rolled back onto his stomach and stared open-eyed at the expanding cloud that blotted out the stars above like a thunderhead.

---

_The door's bolt surrenders with a screech as it flies apart, revealing a sun-bleached panorama that staggers him before his eyes readjust. He stands under the lip of a multi-kilometre-wide crater, looking down on to a terraced city, a wilting amalgamation of stucco walls and red-tiled roofs. Rising in the centre is a spired building that commands a set of scenic grounds, their lush green shocking in the midst of this bleakness. He stumbles through the threshold in a daze, his feet resting on compacted earth. In the shadows to either side of him, in artificial caverns hollowed from the crater walls, webs of steel and machinery boom in the darkness. Looking up, he sees that the crater's rim is limned in grey, one thousand thousand shades of it, pumping torrents of smoke skyward. _

_Even standing in the shadows as he does, he feels the air's warmth, so greatly different than the chill confines of the bunker he's just escaped from. He's much further south than he'd suspected, but comfort fills him as memories tumble back, and he knows he is safe, at least for now. Retreating back through the doorway, he resculpts himself carefully, preening over each detail until he's appropriately inconspicuous. _


	4. and its hero, the Conqueror Worm

**4. and its hero, the Conqueror Worm**

Major Veicht was the first to speak. "I wasn't expecting this one to auto-euthanise." Beyond the glass, an emaciated corpse was wrapped tightly around itself, splintered bone protruding from the knees and elbows. The other man frowned his agreement.

"This was one of the control group, wasn't it? I can't think why he'd choose to die now, of all times." The doctor's choler rising as the body beyond cooled.

"Probably figured he'd spite us one last time." The corpse had begun melting into a seething mess. Shrivelling skin pulled away from the jaws, and the head sank to grin horribly at the men behind the tinted glass.

"A shame there's never anything to dissect." Doctor Severin reached down and spoke into the intercom.

"Scrub team to containment block sixteen. Make sure you recover the stone."

The two stepped outside the dimly-lit overwatch chamber and into a bare concrete corridor. Metal gridwork rang underfoot as they moved. Nodding to the armed guard, the men made their way to a bank of elevators. As the steel doors sealed and the machine whined into motion, Veicht dug in the pockets of his blue tunic, returning with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. His features eased somewhat as he inhaled. "You heard Richter's claiming to have made some progress?"

"He's working on Rimos' writings, right? Those manuscripts are thirteen centuries old, _easily_. What kind of results could he possibly come up with?" the doctor replied testily. Severin was squatter than his companion, with a short and scrupulously-trimmed beard. His coat, in contrast, was yellowed with wear. The lift rumbled to a halt and the scientists were bathed in incandescent light as the doors opened, revealing a red-tiled hallway. Armoured light fixtures sat in the floor and ceiling, and the two squinted against the sudden glare as they always did, making their progress gradually upward. Behind the last set of lights lay an intersection, a map marked in white on the walls.

"Well, you tell me once you've seen him. I'm going to pay our friends in the Vault a visit, maybe get some more data for the parapsychologists to chew on." The doctor sighed and shook his head.

"You never quit, eh? I don't envy you."

---

A left turn took Veicht downwards once more, the surroundings becoming progressively grimmer until he stood before an immense steel door. Lights behind him threw a distorted shadow along the Vault's entrance, its portal never unguarded. Sighing, he stubbed out the cigarette and approached, nodding to acknowledge the guards' salutes. The light was poorer down here, and brought to his mind the containment pens he'd surveyed earlier, with their downward-sloping floors and stained walls. Standing aside as one of the sentries wrestled with the door's locking mechanism, he glanced upward, into the shadowed depths of the annex' ceiling. A wink of light came from telescopic sights zeroed on the threshold. The door shuddered open. The chamber beyond presented him with his pick of two nondescript doors, armoured glass windows set in each. He inhaled deeply and strode towards the leftmost, footsteps ringing on the grilled floor. As the Vault's armoured portal sealed behind him, he grasped the bar laid across the door and heaved it aside.

The room revealed was almost homely, with warm yellow light found nowhere else in the Laboratory. An Ishbalan rug rested on the wooden floor and books lined the shelves on the far wall. In the corner, a gramophone purred some unremarkable tune. _Almost_ homely, because along each wall and on the ceiling were pictures rendered messily in charcoal and chalk. Indistinct, shadowed forms contended with morbid sketches of misshapen men and animals, and throughout ran black tentacles, grasping hands reaching down to touch each tortured figure.

The Brazen Man had heard his approach and had taken his place at the small table occupying the centre of the room. Unlidded violet eyes watched him cross the floor. Veicht began to sit, and then stopped, reaching in his pocket and withdrawing a stick of chalk. He laid the tip against the table's wooden face and carefully drew a line bisecting it. The Man's eye did not leave the chalk, and as soon as it was discarded he snatched it up, clenching a fist around it. The alchemist smiled, resting his clipboard on the table. "How are you?"

"There is not room enough on the walls for all that I must needs set down." The Brazen Man slurred. The left half of his face was horrible, the cheek torn away to reveal reddened gums and bright teeth. Major Veicht frowned and steepled his fingers, meeting the Brazen Man's dead stare. These sessions were becoming more and more productive. The fact that he'd chosen a name for himself had been the first heartening sign, and he'd gone on to christen his neighbour. The Leaden Man, unfortunately, remained withdrawn, and interaction with him was like pulling teeth. _Maybe we should try that. _Veicht pushed away the wayward thought.

"Would you like some paper? Perhaps a set of watercolours could be arranged." The Man brightened visibly, a smile tugging at half of his face. The effect was distracting, as his eyes reflected nothing. Occasionally he would break eye contact, and track his gaze along the wall, lingering on this drawing or that. The Brazen Man did not sleep, and had pulled off his eyelids long ago. Once, on a whim, Veicht had closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, facing the Man. The fear in the thing's ruined face had stayed with him ever since.

The silence between them lasted a handful of minutes, the Man staring at the wall and Veicht joining him, trying to discern any new additions. _There_. A skeletal figure, enveloped in smoke or flames. Above his head, what the Major had mistaken for a halo was in fact a widening eye. He began to sketch the addition on his clipboard as the Man broke the silence.

"Is not this the composition of the waters?" Each session ended with one such non sequitur. Veicht stopped what he was doing to hurriedly set down the sentence. The shrinks in Parapsychology adamantly maintained that there was hidden meaning in these utterances, but the Major detected nothing but lunacy. He'd wring nothing more from it today. Rising briskly, he nodded at the Brazen Man and walked slowly through the still-open doorway. The door slammed shut behind him.

---

The second door was no different, but the room beyond was bare except for a wire-frame bed set in the corner. The grey walls stood unrelieved by decoration, and everything in the room was still.

The Leaden Man waited in the centre of the room, bound in chains, a buzzing wire cage obscuring his face. His shadowed eyes wandered constantly, and his free hand flexed and twisted without pause. Veicht didn't let his stare falter as he closed the door behind him. A small courier bag leaned against the wall next to the door, and Veicht crouched, keeping his eyes on the Leaden Man as he opened the bag. He stood, withdrawing something and letting the case fall to the floor.

It was a macabre little scarecrow, a thing of straw and sackcloth, and fit over his hand like a glove.

"Tell me about your day" prompted Puppet. The Leaden Man pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "You've no complaints? Last time we spoke, we agreed that you were getting bored in here." The Leaden Man acknowledged no-one but Puppet, and would sullenly refuse to engage in dialogue in his absence.

_"Hungry."_

"Are you? I shouldn't think you'd know the meaning of the word."

_"Empty."_ Puppet's mouth curved in a shallow smile. The shrinks had prepared a battery of questions, but the alchemist was never able to completely expunge their alien diction and the Leaden Man had no inclination to comply with Parapsych. To get answers, Puppet needed to work away from the script.

---

"Sit down, please."

Major-General Falkender complied, ill at ease in the high-backed chair. The Fuhrer's back was to him, the man himself standing ramrod-straight at the windows looking out on to Central HQ's parade ground. "It's going to be a lovely sunset." He glanced back at Falkender, and the dimming sunlight cast a shadow over his good eye. "I'm reassigning you to the Southern Headquarters. You'll receive a new staff with several hand-picked specialists who'll help you plan an incursion across the Aerugan border." Falkender blinked.

"I'd understood that Liore would be the next flashpoint." Beyond the glass, green banners fluttered in the wind, tinted by the reddening sky. The Fuhrer's eye glittered as he nodded briefly.

"Just so. But I've no doubt that news of the continuing insurgency has spread, and soon our enemies in Drachma and Aerugo will look with renewed interest over the border." His smile seemed genuine. "It's no secret the Ishbalans were proxies in an Aerugan-sponsored war, and the southerners have evaded their just punishment for too long. A retaliatory action is in order."

"What forces will be at my disposal?"

"The Southern Army's Second Corps."

"The Second?" Falkender hated how querulous he sounded. "Eight divisions aren't enough to pacify a nation the size of Aerugo."

"Correct." Fuhrer King sat himself down opposite the Major-General. "Only two divisions will be involved in the initial spoiling action," Falkender began to protest, but the Fuhrer continued "and the remaining six will be poised to exploit your success." His eye flicked to the crossed swords above the fireplace "Do you have any immediate concerns?" The eye fell back on him. Falkender sat back slightly.

"I'll admit, I'm surprised you'd choose me for this operation..."

"Why is that? You played your part in the Ishbalan uprising to my satisfaction." Pride's tone was genial. "And you've never betrayed my trust."

"Naturally, Fuhrer King." Falkender managed to inject some wounded pride into his voice.

"Good, good." The homonculus murmured. "Your new adjutant will properly brief you later today." A faint smile remained, but above it hung an eye like stone. Falkender nodded briskly, and rose with a salute. King turned his attention to the papers scattered across the table, and spoke again as Falkender turned to leave. "Have you spoken with Generals Grumman or Mustang recently?" The general froze.

---

Major Veicht left Puppet behind in the dim chamber and stalked out of the Vault. Making his way back to the red-lit elevator bank, he stepped inside the car and snatched a moment to smoke, clenching a light in steady hands and hissing a ragged cloud into the ceiling fans. The scribbled notes and second-hand nightmares covering his clipboard didn't constitute particularly hard data, but he needed to talk to Richter anyway. The elevator car thrummed to a halt, and the Major stepped out, blinking at the sunlight leaking through wide windows. From the doorways further along on either side came the hum of conversation and the incessant rattling of typewriters. Minor bureaucrats and military personnel in dull blue uniform mingled by the coffee machines and fans on the ceiling swung lazily. A faint golden glow suffused the room as the sun set. Veicht made his way through the typing pool, catching the eye of a broad, ruddy-faced man in conversation with a secretary. The man jerked his head and motioned to an office nearby. Veicht nodded his assent and continued, the watch at his hip drawing the occasional glance. He closed the door carefully behind him, the shutters rattling. He'd begun to sit down as Richter barged in, muttering an apology and setting himself down heavily behind an undeniably impressive desk. Veicht's expression was sour as he spoke.

"I don't see what value there is in examining the writings of a madman a thousand years dead."

"Oh, I'm close to something, Arnold; I can feel it." The doctor wagged his finger in the alchemist's direction as he spoke. Lectured, rather. "Rimos may have been a bit deranged, but," Richter leaned forward and laced his thick fingers "his essays on the generation of artificial life, of the creation of golems and homonculi, correlate too closely with established fact for me to ignore." The professor had a tiring fondness for his own voice and Veicht knew he'd think nothing of unloading the entire body of his research on any captive. Richter spoke in a hush as he leaned further forward, as if confiding a great truth. "Frankly, I can't see how he could have done a tenth of this work without access to a living specimen," he continued as Veicht opened his mouth to interrupt, "I realise, mind you, that there should be no question of extant homonculi in 600AD, but there's no way he could have made this up and coincidentally stumbled onto the truth. And the documents themselves are _unimpeachable_ in their authenticity, as I've made sure to verify."

"I'm not convinced. I've skimmed through those notes, we _all_ have. Rimos buries everything in allegory and sows non-sequiturs throughout every page he writes. There's room there to interpret whatever you wish." The Major's skepticism failed to pierce Richter's enthusiastic demeanor, and he waved his hand, brushing aside all objections.

"I'll win you over eventually, Arnold. At any rate, I'm waiting on another unearthed shipment from the south-east; it's been delayed by this damnable unrest in Liore. Of course, those always end the same way. Oh, is that more data for those quacks in parapsych?" He nodded at the clipboard. Veicht snorted, turning the evaluation over so that Richter could read. "I don't know how you manage to work in that dungeon."

"That 'dungeon' is right beneath your feet."

"Don't remind me. If I wanted practical work with those... well, I'd have transferred to Lab Five." He skimmed over reams of Veicht's crabbed handwriting, and lingered on the second-hand sketches the Major had copied in the Brazen Man's cell. "My, these are rather macabre. I find myself even more secure in my aforementioned position." He looked up. "Oh, there should be one other thing."

"Right, silly me." Veicht dug in his tunic pockets and returned with a single typewritten sheet, folded neatly. "Here."

---

Months later. Early fought to steady his breathing and squinted down the sights of his newly-acquired rifle. Behind him, Marder and Axel dragged Friedrich's supine form into the dubious shelter of a thorn-bush. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the leg-shot man let out another wail. Early hazarded a glance back and got a nod from Marder.

"He's ok, he's ok!"

"The fuck I am!" Friedrich sobbed. "Get a fucking medic!"

"It's just a flesh wound!" Axel had managed to grab Doc Maxwell's attention, and as Marder struggled to wrap a field dressing around the wound, the medic broke out of cover, loping across a stretch of dirt road that came alive with the impact of each bullet. Early's attention snapped back to the squad. Berhold and Connol had stopped firing, their faces pale as Friedrich screamed again.

"Keep at it, _damn you!" _No-one could dispute that Early had a pair of lungs in him. The shooting resumed as a fresh wave of lead came from the ruined hilltop village ahead. A collection of sun-baked adobe huts had been ground into the dust by artillery fire, leaving the irregulars to man their outlying trenches and dugouts on the town's perimeter. Even with the incessant rain of steel overhead, their determination had not wavered, and Blue Company's assault attempt had been bloodily repulsed. Worse still, the high ground overlooking the village was denied to the Amestrine forces by a centuries-old castle, stubbornly fulfilling its purpose long after the last king to walk its halls had been torn down. Incoming shells had pulverised the outer walls, but the Broken Lances had simply re-emerged from their hiding places in the castle's crypts to take up firing positions in the rubble.

The 23rd Brigade had eaten further and further into the mountains in the past few days, playing a cat-and-mouse game with the guerrillas as they fell back toward their last strongholds, fleeing in the daylight and charging at the State troops under cover of darkness. Now the Lancers had been pushed back to this point, where they'd need to make their stand or forever melt away into the hills, their honour irreparably tarnished and their kin open to predation by rivals in the border nations. There were a good six hundred fighting men holed up in the village and the stronghold overlooking it, and military wisdom dictated that strongly-held positions needed thrice the number of men to take as they did to defend. Thus, the entirety of the brigade had followed in 4/23rd's wake, struggling up dirt tracks in the heat and braving the fire of irregular sharpshooters.

Sieg dove to the ground alongside Early as another shower of dirt fell. "Sir! Lieutenant said to sit tight but get ready to retreat, second battalion's going round on the right." Early glared at the messenger for a moment and nodded. Cover was scarce at the bottom of the hill, but Red Company had no chance of braving an assault up the barren slope. "Also, Division's artillery is dropping smoke on us so's we can pull back." As the sergeant opened his mouth to reply, a flight of smoke shells detonated overhead, taking the edge from the sunlight. More salvoes burst as Early rolled onto his side.

"Doc! What's Friedrich looking like? How quickly can you rig up a stretcher?" The medic looked up, hissing as a bullet struck not two feet away.

"He's fine for now, but he'll need more attention back at base; we pulling back?"

"Yes!" Maxwell's grimy face brightened, and Early turned back on his stomach to take aim once more at the guerrillas above. Ten measured pulls of the trigger emptied the magazine, and he dug in Friedrich's discarded webbing for another one. He looked up again. The smoke shells had dropped visibility to no more than a few dozen metres. The Lancers above had stopped shooting, no doubt taking advantage of the brief respite to rest and-

Screaming, a wave of irregulars charged through the coiling smoke. Early's face fell. _"You crazy bastards!" _Throwing aside Friedrich's rifle, he pulled up his submachinegun and held the trigger down. Ahead, a guerrilla pitched into the dirt. The grenadiers added their own yells to the noise, firing point-blank into the charging Lancers. The last fell in a rush of scree, scant feet from a trembling Connol. It occurred to Early that not a shot had been fired by the enemy in their assault. Through the swirling grey sheets, he made out the Lieutenant jogging their way, Jochim in tow with the radio and Starr's section close behind. They peeled off to the left as Dietrich reached the Staff Sergeant, heading up the slope.

"The platoon's advancing, sarge; get the squad up the hill. Any wounded?" Maxwell looked up.

"One" Early replied "Connol, you and Marder get him back to the CP." The rest of the men had risen to a crouch now, peering through the smokescreen. Above, the castle's sunlit bulk peeked over the brow of the hill. The platoon set up at a steady jog, each man keeping low. After a few seconds of movement they'd won clear of the last lingering waves of smoke. Fire from the castle was focused now on the 2/23rd, looping around the northern side of the village to hit the guerrillas in their fortress. Their fire threw sheets of stone from the ruined battlements, and a squat tower collapsed completely as One platoon looked on, disappearing behind the pillars of smoke rising from the ruined village. Early waved Abrams and Sieg to his left, the squad spreading out into a loose skirmish line. The rest of Red Company was rushing the hilltop in concert, the other platoons an ochre blur off to Early's right. Guns up, they reached the enemy perimeter.

Scraped out of the ground and hastily reinforced with sandbagged parapets, the shallow trenches were filled with the dead. Early's eyes lingered on each face, noting the attitudes in which they'd fallen. The blood-soaked floor of the closest dugout was littered with spent cartridges. Out of ammo and without the possibility of resupply from the fortress, they'd chosen death in a mad charge under cover of the Amestrine smokescreen.

The ground levelled off as they entered the outskirts of the shelled village, eyes scanning for hints of movement at doorways, in windows and in the rubble. The patter of footsteps came suddenly from one hovel, and every gun swang to rest on the lone doorway. Abrams, his jaw clenched, fired from the hip, bullets throwing a haze of dust from the adobe.

_"Hold it!" _The big man relaxed abruptly, letting his finger rest on the trigger-guard sheepishly. Early picked his way forward, squinting at the unlit doorway. "Get out here, _right now_, or we shoot." His tone carried meaning enough, for an instant afterward three men, one scarcely more than a boy, stumbled into the sunlight, hands out at shoulder level. They wore expressions mingling shame and hostility, and Early let the barrel of his gun drop as he motioned towards the Lancers. "Axel, Berhold, secure our prisoners. Abrams, Sieg, clear that house." He turned to Dietrich. "Sir, we need to think about passing these apes back to Battalion HQ."

"Right. I'll get on the horn and see if I can call up some MPs; they need the exercise anyway." Sieg lunged through the hovel's doorway, followed closely by Abrams. The grenadier reemerged a second later, shaking his head.

The rattle of gunfire had reached a crescendo now; in all likelihood, the Amestrine assault on the castle would soon commence in earnest. Two and Three platoons had overrun the last-ditch defenders of the town square, and Dietrich broke from cover to meet their lieutenants in the shadow of the village's central ziggurat. In contrast to the haggard dwellings crowning the hill, it was surfaced in finely-worked stone, a great bas-relief gorgon surmounting the main portal. Bullets and shrapnel had ravaged the beast, leaving only the cratered hint of a face. Red Company's men took advantage of the shade to drain their canteens and quickly share out dwindling ammunition. Dietrich nodded to the other two as he joined them on the temple's threshold. Inside, holes in the ceiling threw light on the beaten copper of an altar, pitted with age.

Early drew the last mouthful of water from his canteen and rose. The roar in his ears had diminished with each passing minute until now he could only hear a dull rush of blood in rare moments of stillness. Despite the sun's heat, he could feel the occasional chill. The squad had taken cover in a shelled-out dwelling looking onto the temple. Abrams had taken the job of guarding the prisoners until HQ sent an MP unit up, and the rest of One platoon was taking the opportunity to relax, loosening the nerves stretched taut by the day's work. Axel inhaled deeply and folded his arms, staring at the rising smoke. As Early looked on, Abrams crouched and passed his canteen to one of the prisoners, their grateful look accompanied by a nervous smile. The sergeant looked up as three grenadiers approached, shemaghs wound about their faces and goggles down. The badges on their shoulders were Blue. Early tensed as their sergeant saluted.

"Sir, we're detailed to escort the prisoners." Abrams glanced at the newcomers.

"I thought Blue was pulling back?"

"Bastards killed plenty of us, but we're still good for babysitting, right?" The man's tone was deadpan.

"We're waiting on an MP squad, don't hang around on our account." Axel and the others had risen to their feet.

"We've got our orders, staff sergeant." The other man stated flatly. Early's eyes narrowed.

"I think I'll speak to your lieutenant before I release these guerrillas to you." The Blue sergeant motioned one of his men up. The corporal bore a manpack radio.

"Ell-tee didn't make it, sarge. You can talk to the Captain, though." He held out the handset. Early took it, and spoke levelly.

"Blue HQ, platoon Red One. I have a detachment of your men here asking after prisoners we've taken." Early could make out his reflection in the other man's lenses.

_"That's correct, Red One. Sergeant Drake will escort the captives back to Battalion HQ." _The Blues took a step closer.

"Sir, we were told to expect an MP unit."

_"Change of plan, Red One. Exigencies of combat, you know how it goes." _Early gritted his teeth and passed the handset back. Drake tugged down his shemagh and smiled thinly. The Blues urged the ragged men to their feet at bayonet-point, and the party set off down the hill, Early's eyes trailing them until they vanished in the scrub. No-one spoke until Dietrich arrived a few minutes later.

"We're holding here for resupply; service company's dragging those fucking pack-mules to us, so we can take the opportunity to rest." He looked around. "Where're the prisoners?" A moment of silence.

"MPs took them off our hands," Early bit out. Abrams was staring intently at the ground, where his canteen had emptied out into the dirt.

---

The air around the fortress hazed for an instant and then detonated, aged stone surrendering to the fire in a thunderous crash. No man on the walls or in the rubble had an instant to scream before the vacuum crushed their lungs and boiled the blood in their veins. A black halo rose over the ancient stone, soldiers surging forward through the choking dust under the cover of this new darkness, fixed bayonets glittering. The central mustering ground was gained without further incident, and the process of clearing the castle room-by-room began. Doors were kicked in, grenades detonating with muffled roars. Pioneer teams with flamethrowers rushed into the unlit crypts and soon the Amestrine banner was unfurled from the highest remaining tower, scarcely two stories tall.

Puppet watched the action from a remove, perched on a sandbag bunker he'd made his way towards after the detonation. The Thermobaric Alchemist wasn't a fan of close combat. It hadn't been particularly hard to adjust to life in the field, especially with the privileges granted a man of his profession. Killing, too, had been easier than expected.

---

Friedrich looked pallid in the brightly-lit confines of the field hospital, reclining uneasily in a narrow cot up against the canvas wall. Early's eyes were drawn to the partitioned far end of the tent, a plain red diamond painted on the opaque curtains.

"Just your luck they'd stick you next to the morgue, eh?" The private started and looked up, letting a dog-eared novel rest on his stomach.

"Sir! I asked the orderlies about getting discharged early, but they said I had a week or so left."

"Well, I understand you'd be eager to get back to the squad, but-" he caught the direction of Friedrich's gaze. "oh, right. The morgue?"

"Er, yessir, I mean, yes, I'm looking forward to getting back to the front."

"Anyway, rest up. We think of you each time there're extra rations to go around." The bespectacled man shared a grin with Early as the sergeant turned to leave.

---

Berhold picked at the lining of the steel helmet cradled in his hands, a beaten cap on his head. The helm had picked up a few new dents and he shuddered as his fingers slid over a shallow graze running along the left-hand side. Sarge had returned a few minutes ago and immediately beckoned the lieutenant to one side, the men exchanging hoarse whispers. It had to be about those prisoners from earlier. Berhold's gorge rose in his throat and he let the helmet slide to the ground. After jogging his way back from the field hospital, Marder had sensed the change in the squad's mood, a departure from their usual tenseness. He had launched blithely into an anecdote from his boot days back at Fort Set, but the tale lapsed as his exploits on the infamous Hooker Hill went unappreciated. Dietrich had split from Early in the meanwhile, a grim set to his jaw as he strode towards the company command post. The sergeant grimaced behind him and went to join the enlisted men at their loose ring of foxholes.

"The ell-tee's hoping he can get Division's Provost Marshal on our side, but it sounds like a lost cause even now. I don't think a single aerugan made it out of that castle once the walls fell, and I know for a fact they'd have been keeping their sick and old in those crypts after the women and children made their escape." The squad didn't answer back, eyes avoiding the sergeant. "It doesn't feel right, I know... but save your pity for the men around you. The other six divisions've dug themselves in on the Reyo to the far south, and we've got to pick up the pace and blow the shit out of Saragoz if this little spring-time jaunt is going to mean anything." The sergeant turned and set off for the company CP, and behind him the squad stayed silent.


End file.
